


a little too not over you

by Starrie_Wolf



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M, Not Canon Compliant - Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban, Professor Remus Lupin, Professor Sirius Black, Sirius Black Raises Harry Potter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-07
Updated: 2019-11-07
Packaged: 2020-11-24 04:40:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,852
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20901779
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Starrie_Wolf/pseuds/Starrie_Wolf
Summary: When Remus accepted the position of Defence Against the Dark Arts professor, he thought he was prepared for it all: the castle from his childhood memories, the professors who had watched him grow up, even Severus Snape.What Dumbledore failed to tell him was whoelseis on the staff.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Team: Destination  
Prompt:  
T11: “We all have big changes in our lives that are more or less a second chance.”  
-Harrison Ford
> 
> Title from a song by David Archuleta.  
Many thanks to the mods of Wolfstar Games for hosting this event!

“On a happier note, I am pleased to welcome two new teachers to our ranks this year. First, Professor Lupin, who has kindly consented to fill the post of Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher.”

Remus stands up, smiling awkwardly as the majority of students clap with a distinct lack of enthusiasm. There’s a cluster of students clapping extra-hard, and his eyes can’t help but slide over to the Gryffindor table, to the students who had been in his carriage earlier.

Harry… looks so much like James that his heart _aches_, like it’s a full moon and one of his bones isn’t quite in alignment yet but his transformation won’t stop for a little thing like that, like that one time during the war when he got stabbed in the chest with a dagger.

Remus keeps his eyes on Harry, because it’s still better than the alternative.

He can feel Snape – no, it’s Severus now – glaring at him, his hateful stare boring into the side of Remus’ head like he’s barely holding himself back from setting Remus on fire.

But that’s not even the worst of it. If it had been just Severus, Remus could’ve endured. He’d done it for their entire Seventh Year, keeping an eye open for anything from curses in the corridors to his assignments getting sabotaged to powdered aconite in his belongings. Really, it’s partly thanks to Severus that he’s so good at Defence Against the Dark Arts.

No, it’s not Severus that’s stopping him from turning his head.

Two seats down from Severus, that’s –

Remus had never been so glad to see the appearance of the Hogwarts Feast before, to have an excuse to stare down at his plate instead of anywhere else, to be safe from catching a glimpse of –

Why didn’t Dumbledore _mention_ it?

No. No, it’s hardly Professor Dumbledore’s fault. Surely the Headmaster has so many more important things to do than keep track of Remus’ social life, or lack thereof.

He reaches over for a pitcher, its surface polished until it’s gleaming, and accidentally catches sight of a reflection.

Remus decisively withdraws his hand, turning his gaze away. It’s okay. He didn’t quite feel like having pumpkin juice anyway.

He comes back to himself with a start when the crumbs of his pumpkin tart melt from his plate, signalling the end of the Feast. He doesn’t even remember what he’s eaten, but at least he doesn’t need to worry about the House Elves putting aconite in his food.

His hip bumps sharply against the table as he stands, far too fast. It shudders from the impact, and he’s just about to turn to apologise to the rest of the staff when he catches sight of dark hair moving in the periphery of his vision.

There’s a commotion at the other end of the Head Table, but for possibly the first time Remus finds that his Gryffindor courage deserts him.

He makes his escape.

* * *

The smoking goblet in the middle of his desk makes his heart leap into his throat. It hangs there, suspended, until Remus takes a second look at his office and sees it’s empty.

He knows why Severus keeps doing this, of course, which is why he also has multiple charms up to alert him if a student even enters the second-floor corridor, never mind approach his office. He’s not quite at the level of Mad-Eye Moody yet, but he’s going to get there at this rate.

The curse on the Defence Against the Dark Arts position limits his time here to a single year, and Remus has every intention to last that entire year.

A whole year of having a roof over his head and as much food as he can eat. A whole year of being able to keep his mind on the full moons. A whole year of Madam Pomfrey dragging him down to the Hospital Wing to heal the damage he’s done to his own body, even as she tuts over his new scars. A whole year of being able to see the fine young man Harry’s growing up into. A whole year of –

Remus holds his breath and downs the entire contents of the goblet.

He got lucky the first two months. The first full moon after the school term started occurred on a Thursday night, but all his Friday classes are in the afternoon, leaving him with an entire morning to recover. The second full moon was on a Saturday night. But the upcoming one – 29th November, says his calendar, which is thankfully Muggle and therefore unable to express any curiosity about his preoccupation with the lunar phases – falls on a Monday night.

There’s no way around it: he has a full day on Tuesdays, he _needs_ to find someone to cover his classes that morning, if not that entire day.

Remus bites his lip, but there’s no way around it: he only knows of five staff members who may possibly have an entire day free, but only two of them would have any practical knowledge of Defence, and he isn’t going to ask Professor Dumbledore.

That leaves…

Remus is ashamed that his mind briefly flits to Minerva, but no, enough is enough. He can’t bother the professors of core classes if there’s someone who is both qualified and whose schedule is more flexible.

“You’re a Gryffindor,” he mutters to himself. “_Gryffindor_. Act like it.”

Before he can talk himself out of it, Remus marches out of his office and heads for the first floor.

* * *

Most professors’ quarters are next to their offices or, if they do not have offices, then next to their classrooms. It’s no different for Advanced Arithmancy Studies.

Remus raps on the wall beside the portrait frame.

Almost immediately he feels an overwhelming urge to run away; he counters it by reminding himself how stupid it would be, how this is legitimate business he cannot put off, not if he wants to remain in gainful employment.

The door swings open.

Remus swallows. Oh, he thought he was prepared, but surreptitious glances over two months hadn’t prepared him at all for the reality of having the man he’s – sadly, foolishly, _still _– in love with for over half his life standing right in front of him once more.

“Remus?”

The sound of his name coming out in that – everything he’s dreamed of for years, and yet nothing quite like what he remembered – jolts him into remembering why he’s doing this.

“Professor Black?” the words nearly choke in his throat, but he manages to force them out. “May I ask for a favour?”

A series of complicated expressions flit over Sirius’ face. Surprise, confusion, frustration, resignation – they war for dominance for a moment, before sliding back under a mask of indifference.

Remus stares, and very nearly blurts out, “But you hate having to wear a ‘pureblood mask’!”

He doesn’t have that right, he reminds himself with a vicious pinch of his thigh.

“Certainly, Professor Lupin,” Sirius responds, without even asking Remus what the favour is.

Remus’ traitorous heart leaps into his throat at the casual display of trust, and he has to work to keep his voice even when he asks, “Are you free the whole of Tuesday, 30 November? I need someone to cover my classes.”

“Cover your –” Sirius blinks, and then apparently realises why, exactly, Remus might have to miss a day of classes. “Certainly.”

Remus doesn’t see him draw his wand, but an ornate scroll of cream parchment comes flying from inside the room, unrolling obediently into what is, apparently, a calendar marked with all of Sirius’ classes.

“I’m free that day,” Sirius confirms, tapping at the empty square with a finger. “What’s your schedule that day?”

Remus pulls out the spare bit of parchment he is thankful he had the foresight to copy his schedule onto, fighting not to cringe in embarrassment at the grubby scrap of parchment.

He can’t help but glance up, but Sirius doesn’t look as if he’s even noticed, much less cared.

Their fingers brush.

Remus inhales sharply, pulling away, but Sirius is too fast; his hand shoot out, catching Remus’ wrist.

“Remus –”

Remus yanks on his own hand. If it had been the Sirius of yesteryear – braver than Remus could ever hope to be, impulsive to a fault, and firm the belief that he and James are invincible – that Sirius would never have let him go. But this Sirius – thirteen years older, the head of a Most Ancient and Noble House, and having raised the son of his dead best friend alone – this Sirius loosens his grip.

“I’m sorry,” Remus tells the floor, and then throws his non-existent dignity to the wind and _flees_.

* * *

_Monday, 29 November 1993, past moon-rise_

Remus is padding through his office, nosing curiously at the bookshelf, trying to reach a book – he’s never been lucid during his transformations before, much less be able to explore his surroundings – when the proximity charm chimes, alerting him that there’s someone outside his office door.

Remus yips in alarm, paws scrabbling at the shelf to keep his balance, and promptly falls over with a loud _fwump_. To add insult to injury, one of the books he was reaching for fell on his head.

“Remus?”

It’s Sirius’ voice. He must’ve heard the noise. “Remus, are you all right?” Sirius pauses. “Uh, bark once for yes, twice for no?”

Remus lies there, panting, and refuses to make any barking noises.

If he had his voice, he’d be shouting, “_Sirius, you idiot, werewolves are not dogs!_” Which was, possibly, why Sirius had suggested such a stupid mode of communication.

It had been such a lovely evening, too. He’d remembered to get a basin _this time_, filled with mulled wine that’s perfect for this weather, and he even managed to get most of it down his snout instead of his front.

Unfortunately, he forgot to account for the fact that wolves didn’t have front-facing eyes, nor opposable thumbs, and therefore it was quite impossible to continue reading the treatise he’d been enjoying before the moon rose.

Why did he choose to put all his picture-based encyclopaedias with self-turning pages up on the highest shelf again?

“Remus, if you don’t say anything, I’m coming in.”

Remus opens his mouth to attempt to approximate a bark, and then he remembers that the door’s locked.

There’s a muttered curse as Sirius tries the door and presumably finds it locked.

“Alohomora.”

Remus sighs, his tail thumping against the floor. He’s hardly going to lock himself in using a spell even a _student_ knows –

Sirius says a string of words too fast for Remus to catch, and the door clicks open.

Remus scrabbles to his feet, trips over his way-too-many legs, and goes crashing into his office desk instead.

Sirius freezes in the doorway.

Remus twitches. If Sirius had any fear of werewolves left – after running with one for four years – that would’ve destroyed the last of it.

“Okay. Okay, I know we trust Severus not to mess a potion up, but if it makes you feel better, I can come in as Padfoot, okay?”

Remus manages a baleful glare, but it’s not like there’s anything he can do. He can’t even _get up_ properly, for Merlin’s sake!

Sirius comes into the room, closing the door behind him and locking it with the same spell Remus had used. Then he sets his wand aside on a convenient shelf, bends down, and in moments there’s a giant black dog padding towards Remus, nails clicking against the tile.

Unwilling to humiliate himself any further, Remus carefully – _slowly_ – gets his paws underneath him, and then rises to his feet.

Padfoot stops a respectable distance away, beginning to tip his head in submission. He pauses, like he just remembered Remus is in control today, and then goes ahead and rolls over to present his belly anyway.

Remus stares down at Padfoot, who stares up at him with a doggie smile, the same tongue-lolling grin he used to use to get the girls to give him scritches.

Well, Remus doesn’t even have fingers right now, _and not by choice_, so Padfoot’s just going to have to deal. To express his frustration, Remus sticks his cold nose into the soft fur of Padfoot’s belly.

Padfoot gives a little yelp, legs kicking out, and one of his paws smack Remus right in the eye.

They both freeze, Remus in surprise, Padfoot in alarm.

Oh, it is _on_.

Remus growls, and has the rare pleasure of seeing a very human _oh shit_ look on Padfoot’s face before he pounces. He holds on as Padfoot bucks, once, twice, but eventually Padfoot’s years of familiarity with his canine form and greater bulk wins, and they roll over.

Remus manages to hook a leg over Padfoot’s, using his greater dexterity to flip them over again. His mind doesn’t remember, but it’s almost like his body _does_, how he used to wrestle with a big black dog under a canopy of stars – and Remus only plays to _win_.

* * *

Remus wakes up cocooned in a heap of black fur.

“Ge’roff, Pa’foot,” he mumbles, spitting out a mouthful of fur as he turns his face aside. “Urgh.”

He rubs blearily at his eyes, and only then does he realise what, exactly, is wrong with this situation.

Padfoot is sprawled casually across Remus’ torso, eyes fixed on Remus’ face like he’s worried Remus is about to throw him out.

None of this is like how it used to be, but still…

It’s the best sleep he’s gotten in years.

Remus sighs. He’s just… so _tired_, all of a sudden.

“You’ll have to change back if you want to talk.”

Padfoot rolls carefully off Remus, and a moment later Sirius is lying in its place, dressed in the robes – the pureblood version of pyjamas, Remus recognises now, one of the few things Sirius enjoyed about that part of his heritage – he wore last night.

“How are you feeling?”

Remus gives the question some serious thought, flexing his arms and legs tentatively. “Good,” he decides, with no little surprise. He’s long grown used to the ache a full moon leaves in his bones, but this time even that felt less than usual, like having Padfoot around cushioned the impact of the transformation somehow.

His transformations used to be less painful in school too. He’d thought… he’d thought it had been the nostalgia colouring his memories, downplaying the pain, not that it had been _real_.

“Good,” Sirius parrots. “Uh, that’s good.” He props himself up on an elbow, his free hand fidgeting slightly at the sleeve of his robes.

It’s good to see that being the head of a pureblood family hasn’t changed him that much. “Sirius,” Remus says, because it seems dumb to persist in calling him ‘Professor Black’ when Remus is lying naked on the floor of his office next to him, “_thank you_.”

“Anything for you.”

Sirius winces almost as soon as the words leave his mouth, but he doesn’t move to take them back. Instead, he stares at Remus almost defiantly, and in that moment he looks so much like his fifteen-year-old self that it makes Remus’ heart skip a beat.

Remus closes his eyes and sighs. It looks like they’re really doing this now.

“You thought I was a traitor,” he points out, because if they’re going to talk about it, then they’re going to do it _properly_, no dancing about the issue.

“You thought _I _was a traitor,” Sirius shoots back, with no heat in his words. The bleak look on his face tells Remus that he knows now, with the benefit of hindsight, how Remus could have arrived at that conclusion thirteen years ago.

“I was so sure,” Remus mutters, almost to himself as he rolls over onto his back, “that you _must_ be James’ Secret Keeper. Who else would he have trusted?”

Sirius sighs, flopping down to face the ceiling as well. “Not a single day passes when I didn’t _wish_ I was,” he confesses, his tone a wealth of unspoken regret.

They both stare up at the ceiling.

“I’m sorry for pulling my wand on you.”

“Don’t be.” Sirius has an arm flung over his eyes when Remus chances a glance over. “You thought I was selling information to Voldemort, I would’ve done the same. Did do the same.”

“Dumbledore sent me to spy on the werewolf packs,” Remus admits, in the interest of full disclosure. It’s not like anything from the last war matters, now. “We were trying to get advance warning before Voldemort decides to annihilate another village.”

Sirius heaves an explosive sigh. “I’m sorry for thinking you could _ever_ join Greyback.”

There’s a rustle of fabric beside him, and Remus is already rolling over to face him when Sirius wraps his arms around his shoulders and pulls him into a proper hug, their first hug in over thirteen years. Sirius is warm and solid under his hands, hugging him like he never wants to let go. Remus tries to return the gesture as much as he can, but his limbs are still shaky from the aftereffects of his transformation, and it’s all he can do to cling on to Sirius.

“Do you think,” Sirius says very quietly, almost breathing the words into Remus’ ear. “Can we… start over?”

For a moment, Remus thinks he’s heard wrong. But no, Sirius is watching him with heart-breaking hope glimmering in his eyes, which means… “As friends, or…”

“Whatever you want,” Sirius is quick to answer, far too quick, like he’s already steeling himself for Remus’ rejection, but the first thing that comes to Remus’ mind is –

“I didn’t think you still felt that way.”

“Didn’t think I still felt that way?” Sirius echoes incredulously. “Remus, these past few months, every time I see you, or even just hear your voice – and every time you turn away it’s like the Cruciatus Curse, but even then, to think you’ll only be here for a year –”

He exhales, pressing their foreheads together. “I haven’t seen you for thirteen years, but I still love you as much as the day we were dancing at James and Lily’s wedding, so –”

“I love you too,” Remus cuts him off, because Sirius only rambles this much when he’s panicking. “That’s why I couldn’t bear to look at you, because I was ashamed of myself. I should have trusted you; you would have died before selling James and Lily to Voldemort.”

“Forgive me if I’m being too forward,” Sirius murmurs, and then he leans in.

The first brush of their lips feels electrifying, almost, a sensation Remus has almost forgotten. He inhales sharply, but he’s already tilting his head, sheer muscle memory carrying him through when his mind refuses to work. There’s something bubbling in his chest, light and fizzy like Butterbeer, and he’s just about to pull Sirius closer when the shrill sound of an alarm makes him jerk back instead.

Sirius curses, vicious and sharp. His cheeks are flushed slightly, and Remus can’t stop staring.

“I need to go,” Sirius explains rather unnecessarily, scrambling to his feet and snatching up his wand. A swish Transfigures his pyjamas into robes more suitable for teaching in, and another swish produces a Tempus charm, making Remus wince. Sirius won’t have time for breakfast, not even if he runs.

“I’ll see you – that is, come by my rooms for dinner?”

A final swish cancels the complex locking charm on the door, and Sirius warily pokes his head out to check that the coast is clear.

“Dinner!” he calls over his shoulder, slamming the door shut behind him.

Remus touches his lips, listening to the sounds of Sirius careening down the corridor, and realises that he is smiling.


	2. Chapter 2

_Epilogue_

It’s become a frequent enough occurrence for Remus to spend some time with Sirius after dinner, either to catch up or even just to have company while grading his essays.

It should therefore be _less_ of a surprise when, one night when they are drinking tea while leaning into each other on the couch, the door slides open. Sirius has mentioned, in his many stories about his godson, how Harry has a standing invitation to drop by whenever he likes.

“Sirius, you won’t believe what just happened – oh! I’m sorry, Professor Lupin, am I interrupting something?”

Remus, who has just sat up straight and tried to look like he isn’t almost-cuddling Harry’s godfather on the couch, coughs and hopes his cheeks aren’t turning pink. “No, it’s quite all right, Harry. I should be going anyway –”

“No,” Sirius disagrees, catching his hand in a move so blatant that Remus is stunned by his audacity. “Sit. You’ve got just as many stories about his father as I do, and he’s sick of my stories by now.”

“No I’m not,” Harry protests automatically, before perking up. “Professor Lupin? You knew my father too?”

It seems like he’s not going anywhere. “Well,” Remus says somewhat drily, regaining his aplomb. “Given that we shared a dorm for seven years, I daresay I knew him fairly well.”

Harry frowns in confusion, like he’s trying to match Remus’ description to what he’s heard from Sirius, and then brightens again. “Oh! You’re the werewolf friend!”

The… what?

On the one hand, Remus feels like he ought to be glad that Harry clearly doesn’t have anything against werewolves – not that he thought someone raised by _Sirius_ would be prejudiced. On the other hand…

Remus turns a very unimpressed look on Sirius, who looks like he wants to sink into the floor.

“Look, I can explain –” he starts weakly.

“Really, the _werewolf friend_?” Remus demands. “Is that the best you can come up with? Even ‘ex-boyfriend’ would’ve been better!”

Harry blinks.

Sirius blinks.

Remus mentally rewound what he just said, and then wanted to slap himself.

“Ah, that is –” he stutters to a stop at the glint in Sirius’ eyes, a look that has always spelt nothing but trouble, but has never failed to make Remus want to kiss him.

“_Ex_-boyfriend?” He raises an eyebrow. “I don’t recall breaking up with you.”

He… what?

Remus blinks rapidly. “I, uh, that is –” he pauses to collect himself, because a verbal duel with Sirius is no trivial pursuit. “I accused you of working for Voldemort!”

“But you never said you thought this wasn’t working out, or that you wanted to break up with me –”

“I tried to kill you!”

“You can totally be with someone while wanting to kill them,” Sirius says peaceably, like that is an explanation _at all_ –

Remus looks at him, and thinks about how he’s feeling right now. Somehow, he feels like actually has to agree.

“Just look at my parents,” Sirius continues mercilessly. He shakes his head, his lips pursed to suppress the laughter Remus can see dancing in his eyes. “Dear old mum _definitely_ wanted to kill dad, like, every other day.”

Remus gives in to the urge to flop back onto the couch, staring up at the ceiling. “Why am I in love with a bloody _wanker_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To be fair to Sirius, a name like "Remus Lupin" is pretty much "Werewolf McWerewolf", so 'the werewolf friend' is a pretty accurate descriptor.


End file.
